


Workin' For a Paycheck

by howardently



Category: My Mad Fat Diary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 19:15:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4149633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howardently/pseuds/howardently
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Real life romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Workin' For a Paycheck

“FINN NELSON!” She screeches, loud enough to carry through the whole flat, loud enough for the what-the-fuck in the silences to sound clearly around the words.

There’s a scuffling sound in the other room, and she marks his quickened pace with the sound of his heavy footsteps on the wood. His fingers enter her eyeline before he does, creeping around the corner of the kitchen, like he’s pulling himself to get in that much faster. She pops her hip, crosses her arms, makes her best scowly angry eyes. He’s in so much trouble.

And he knows it, too. He looks contrite already, a bit terrified. She feels a kind of smug satisfaction but forces herself to keep it off her face. He’s breathing a bit heavily, still holding on to the corner of the entryway. He’s only hovering, clearly reluctant to enter the room and deal with the aftermath of his actions. Something about the way his bare feet straddle the strip between the kitchen and the dining room pisses her off even more.

“Wha’, babe?” He asks, eyes pinched with carefully balanced alarm. He won’t openly show that he’s freaked out by getting yelled at, because then he’d have to own it in the fight later. It’s a familiar process; they both know the rules and how to get around them.

“What the fuck is this?” She asks, each word distinct and crisp.

The rest of the house seems to grow quieter; even the furniture knows to fear the wrath of Rachel Earl. He lifts his shoulders, lets his face grow blank, eyes wide in confusion. She glares, irritated even further by his insistence at feigning innocence. His expression becomes increasingly cartoony, until he’s more caricature and less man. She waits, watching him with narrowed eyes, knowing that silence works better at drawing him out than accusations.

“What’re you talking about?” He asks finally, leaning his weight on the arm still grasping the wall.

“This!” She spits, bending over to swing the lid of the trash bin open and point in. “I am talking about this!”

He actually takes a step back, until only his toes are on the tiles. He makes a fist and taps it against his thigh. Rae juts her jaw out. She wants to wait him out again, make him admit it, but she’s good and riled up and can’t seem to help herself.

“Do you want to tell me why this is in the bin?” She asks venomously, bending over to pull out of the trash a pale blue handle with an angular shard attached to its side. Her favorite mug. Her fucking favorite mug, smashed to bits and in the bin like she won’t even notice.

“Dunno.” He says tightly, raises a hand to rub at the back of the head.

She’s gonna kill him.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” She shakes the handle in his direction, and while his feet don’t move, he leans further away from her. He’s always trying to retreat from these kind of conversations, it’s tactic #3 in his arsenal, right behind feign ignorance and hide the evidence. “Are we living with the bleedin’ fairies now, then? Cause I certainly didn’t break the mug and put it in the bin.”

He grimaces, runs a hand over the denim at his hip. He wobbles a little bit, and it’s physical evidence that he’s considering whether or not to lie to her.

“It’s my favorite mug, Finn! Did you think I wouldn’t notice? Did you think I’d just never figure out that you broke my favorite mug and didn’t say anything?”

It makes her even angrier that tears are pricking at the back of her eyes, that her mood is suddenly shifting from placing the blame firmly on his shoulders to a crushing kind of sadness that her favorite mug is dead. Her fucking favorite mug. No more rainy afternoons curled up with it and a good book. No more reassuring pale blue as she’s guzzling down coffee to retain enough energy to get all her words out before she loses them to sleep. No more of it’s comforting presence next to the tea kettle after she’s done the washing up, when she leaves it on the counter to be used rather than putting it in the cupboard. Her favorite mug, now nothing more than scattered pieces, memories she can never get back.

Then he says the thing. If she were Bruce Banner, this is where she’d Hulk out, crushing the ceramic into dust in her giant green fist.

“It’s just a mug, Rae.”

“AHHHH!” She screeches. It’s Rae tactic #4: lose your shit and derail into mindless hollering. “It is NOT just a mug! Mrs. Dewhurst gave me that mug when I first moved out. And, it’s the perfect size, and it’s not too heavy, and it’s thick enough that my hands won’t get burnt. It’s not just a mug! YOU’RE JUST A MUG!”

There’s a moment after this outburst when silence reigns, when even the tick of the clock seems to stop. His mouth is open, his eyes are wide, and it’s like everything has frozen. Even the tears that’ve irritatingly escaped seem to have halted their irrevocable path down her cheeks.

And then he laughs. He laughs so hard that he’s doubled over, clutching the counter for support. His face gets red and tears drip down his cheeks too. She hates him more in that moment than she ever has before. He’s fucking beautiful.

“Stop laughing at me!” She cries, dropping the broken mug back into the bin and crossing her arms across her chest. She’s pouting now, too. Just great.

“I’m sorry, Rae.” He starts, but has to pause for another minute to laugh heartily again. He steps into the kitchen finally, starts walking towards her. “I’m sorry, love. I am just a mug.”

She scowls, but she can feel the furrow in her forehead start to change and the corners of her traitorous mouth start to lift. So she exaggerates her frown even further; she can’t let him know that his laughter is a powerful weapon in his arsenal. She’d never win another fight again.

Finn steps closer again, slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal and he’s not sure if he’ll be allowed to pet it. Or if he’ll get mauled. She doesn’t move, so he makes his own sympathetic frown, though his face is still bright with the laughter. She pouts harder, and he takes this as tacit acceptance for some reason, and he steps in to wrap her in his arms.

She thunks her forehead against his chest heavily, not enough to hurt him really, but enough to make her feelings known. He rubs his face against her hair. His stubble makes it go static-y and wild, but she can’t seem to make herself care. The son of a bitch. It’s tactic #17; she still can’t resist his touch. She turns to press her cheek against him, and he kisses her temple.

“I am sorry I broke your mug, Rae.” He exhales heavily, and she can feel it in his chest. She sighs. Okay, at least he’s admitting it. Maybe she’s winning a little bit too. “I’ll buy you a new one. Any one you want, the sky’s the limit. You can pick the fanciest, most expensive mug you can find, okay?”

“You’re a jerk.” She mumbles against him, and he rocks her back and forth in the cradle of his arms.

“No, I’m a mug, remember?”

She pushes him away with a huff and stomps off to the bedroom. She hears him laugh from his spot in the kitchen.


End file.
